


Flight at Christmas

by greerwatson



Category: Mrs. Pollifax - Dorothy Gilman
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-27 00:47:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17152145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerwatson/pseuds/greerwatson





	Flight at Christmas

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Philomytha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philomytha/gifts).



“Have another éclair,” suggested Mrs. Pollifax hospitably.

Bishop grinned, and reached out to take it.  There had been six on the plate originally; one had gone to Farrell and she had taken one herself.  Eclairs were not exactly traditional Christmas fare.  On the other hand, they were a great favourite of Bishop’s; and she knew his appetite of old.  In a box in the kitchen she had two dozen assorted homemade shortbread cookies with red and green sugar, icing, and cherries.  However, she had every intention of taking them with her when she flew out to visit her son.  If she brought them out now, she had no doubt that she’d have to bake again.  And there simply wasn’t time.

With his mouth too full to speak, Bishop waved a finger at Farrell.

“Yes, I see him,” said Mrs. Pollifax, with a twinkle.  “My dear Farrell, it is good to see you—though I must admit, I am rather surprised.  I quite thought you were out of the country still.”

“I was,” Farrell admitted.  “I should be, in fact.  However, I got a call.”

Mrs. Pollifax looked alert.  “A call from Mr. Carstairs?” she asked.  She knew those calls.

“A warning,” he said.  “Carstairs came into it after that.”

Hurriedly, Bishop finished his mouthful of pastry.  “He needs to hide,” he said.  A tongue flicked cream off his lips, and he licked his fingers.  “We think only for a week or so.  However, the problem is … if there is a leak, where would he be safe?  We thought of you.”

“But I have a flight,” Mrs. Pollifax protested.  “I’m supposed to be visiting Roger for Christmas.  I really don’t—”  She looked apologetically at Farrell.  “—wish to be unhelpful, least of all to you, but I don’t think I can simply invite you to come along.  Much though I’d like to, for it would enliven the holiday quite a lot.  Though,” she added, “Roger would be rather more accommodating than Jane, I think.  Jane would ask questions.  Pointed ones.  About younger men.”

Farrell looked amused, and Bishop appalled.

“Roger,” Mrs. Pollifax said thoughtfully, “might not mind my bringing a friend, and probably would ask no questions—especially if I asked him not to—but he would undoubtedly _think_ them.  He’s not a fool.”

“And Jane is?” asked Farrell curiously.

“Jane is a … an estimable woman,” said Mrs. Pollifax loyally.  “In her own way.”

“Which is not _your_ way,” Farrell said, looking amused again.  “Which is, I suspect, rather more estimable in our eyes.  At least, I know that I’ve found you so.  More than once.”

“Oh, well,” said Mrs. Pollifax, both gratified and a little embarrassed, “one does one’s bit as best one can.  If one can help one’s country _and_ a friend—at the same time, too!”  She turned to Bishop.  “But you see the problem.”

Bishop hesitated, but only for a moment.  Then he said apologetically, “I think Farrell was picked up when he landed at Dulles Airport.  I _hope_ we threw them off, but….”  He trailed off doubtfully.

For the first time, Mrs. Pollifax felt a frisson of alarm.  Danger on a mission was something that she, as a spy, knew she should take in her stride; but she had not considered the possibility that danger might come home to sit, so to speak, on her doorstep.

Farrell had been watching her face closely.  “I think,” he said gently, “that perhaps it would be best if I went somewhere else.  A hotel, perhaps.”

“Certainly not,” she said, rallying.  “How could I turn away a friend?  At this time of year, too.  Not that the local Holiday Inn is a stable in the Holy Land; but there is a common principle, wouldn’t you say?”

“Not really,” said Farrell honestly.  “Any resemblance between me and the Christ Child is about forty years in the past.”

Bishop bit his lip, and then made up his mind.  “I’ll call Carstairs back,” he said.  “I don’t think either of us really considered the probability that you’d made plans for the holiday.”

“It’s not that,” she protested.  “Well, not the _holiday_ part of it.  If I’m needed, then I hardly think it appropriate to say no.  Christmas….”  She trailed off for a moment, and then said staunchly. “Christmas be hanged!”

Farrell’s lip twitched.

“I’ll call Carstairs,” said Bishop firmly.

After getting through to Washington and explaining, however, his face fell.  He listened for rather a long time, interrupting twice for brief protest that was clearly cut off short by Carstairs.  Finally, he held out the receiver.  “He wants to talk to you,” he told Mrs. Pollifax.

She took it, a little reluctantly.

Without preamble, Carstairs said, “We can come up with alternatives, but not straight away.  Your flight is at three this afternoon, right?”  Before Mrs. Pollifax could answer, he went on, “If we switch the two of you to a flight tomorrow, can you keep Farrell there overnight?”

“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Pollifax.  Things seemed to be going rather fast.  “What should I tell my son?”

“We’ll come up with something.”

This did not seem very satisfactory.  Mrs. Pollifax looked at Farrell.  Quietly, he got up and tapped Bishop on the shoulder.  When the other man looked up, a bit startled, he jerked his head towards the door.

“No,” said Mrs. Pollifax, suddenly decisive. Then, as the phone squawked loudly, “Not you, Mr. Carstairs.  Yes, I agree.” To the others, she said, “Of course, you can stay the night, Farrell.  I’ll make up the couch.  Are you also staying, Bishop?”

He shook his head. “I’m reasonably sure that Carstairs wants me back in Washington.”

She handed him the receiver.  “Farrell will be going to Roger’s with me,” she told him.  She looked at Farrell, who shrugged.  “I’m going to tell my son that he’s a dear friend I met on my trip to Mexico.  Which has—” she said pointedly, “—the advantage of being the truth.  An artist, which is also true; and, for that matter, I'll mention the gallery.”  After a moment’s thought, she added, “He’ll need a ticket; but I’m sure you’ll be taking care of that.”

“Are you sure?” asked Bishop.

“Certainly!” said Mrs. Pollifax.  She bridled.  “When have I ever let you down, Bishop?”  She got up.  “Wait here.”

Bemused, the two men looked at one another while she was out of the room.  After confirming a few details with Carstairs, Bishop hung up.  “I should be going,” he said uncertainly. But he was still there when Mrs. Pollifax came back.

“Here,” she said, and handed him a box. “Have some Christmas cookies to go. I doubt if they’ll feed you on the flight.”

He peeked inside, and brightened.  “Thank you,” he said.  “Are you sure you can spare them?”

“Not a problem,” she said.  “I’ll have time to bake again before we leave.”


End file.
